Deal with the Daemon
by Maugan Ra
Summary: Sometimes, the only difference between the Inquisition and those they hunt is an official sanction.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note - Damn, it's been a long, long time since I posted anything on . A good three years or so, actually, I believe. Well, I'm going to do my best to start submitting more often from now on, and hopefully people will see the difference that sort of time gap makes in my writing. This particular story is a re-post of one I originally put up on another site, with a few minor edits - hopefully it'll inspire me to continue the series.

Prologue

_Warp light bloomed and the daemonic assessors of the Black Tontine stepped forth even as the sorcerer lay dying. They came because my actions have violated the Tontine, and their very presence drove needles into our minds. Shrine gates rattled and the Aquila wept molten tears._  
>- The journals of Inquisitor Lord Felroth Gelt<p>

Samuel Krista staggered down the hallway, his steps unsteady and his mind clouded by the drink. Up until mere moments ago he had been fast asleep, but then had come the knocking. Loud and insistent, it had echoed throughout his tiny hab with enough volume to jolt his addled mind into wakefulness. He didn't know who it was, but by the Emperor, they were going to receive such a beating for waking him like this!

"I'm coming, curse you!" He roared, spittle flying past yellowed and broken teeth, pausing to snatch up a heavy metal club from its rack by the door. He was an Overseer, damn it all, and you didn't treat an overseer with such disrespect!

With a feral snarl, Krista wrenched open the door, raised the club above his head, and stopped dead. A cold weight settled in his stomach, and slowly he lowered his weapon, letting it drop to the ground with a clatter. Beads of a sweat formed on his brow, even though the air flowing in through the open door was achingly cold.

There were three of them, taller than any man he had ever met and clad in long black robes like morbid Administratum functionaries. All three of them stood a few paces from his door, their hands hidden inside the folds of their robes and their heads bowed. Licking his lips, Krista took a step backwards, thinking desperately of the window at the other end of the corridor. He could make it, he was sure, if he started running right now...

The figure in the middle looked up, revealing three stale yellow eyes inside the darkness of its hood. Krista knew he should look away, shouldn't meet that unholy gaze, but he couldn't. He couldn't move a single muscle. Paralysed, filled with a terror that he was unable to express, all the overseer could do was watch as the mysterious figure unfolded its arms and extended a single hand to him.

The faintest of whimpers escaped his lips as Krista laid eyes upon that hand. It was completely fleshless, a collection of bones blackened by flames that simply floated unconnected in the air. The fingers folded back on themselves in an almost playful beckoning gesture, and Krista could do nothing as his legs disobeyed him and moved him forwards until he was almost touching the hideous creature. There was an unnatural smell upon the cold air, the stench of rotting paper and burning stone.

The visitors moved off in a single file, heads bowed in some cruel parody of a priestly procession, and all Krista could do was to stumble along in their wake, silent tears running down his face.

Chapter One

_There is no such thing as innocence, only degrees of guilt_  
>- Imperial Proverb<p>

The room was far from the most luxurious accommodation that Nicodemus had ever slept in. The smallest of three bedrooms in a mildly dilapidated hab, it contained little more than a single decaying bed and a tiny window covered by threadbare curtains that did nothing to shut out the morning light. The walls were an unappealing shade of grey, the first signs of damp-rot creeping out from the corners, and there was a small hive of buzzing insects somewhere in the ceiling cavity. And none of it mattered in the slightest.

With a fond smile pulling at his lips, Nico looked down at the slender woman that shared his bed. Her black hair was cropped short in the manner of her home city, the better to fit under a factory cap. Her face, peaceful in sleep, lent her a strangely delicate air, as though she might break at the slightest hint of rough treatment. One long, elegant arm lay draped across his chest, the porcelain skin almost glowing in the faint light. In short, she looked like a harmless and innocent maiden. The long, flowing lines of gang tattoos that covered her arms and torso were the first hint to her true nature. The second was the paired set of elegant pistols that he knew rested underneath her pillow.

For a long while, he was content to simply lay there and watch her, all thoughts of darkness washed away by the simple peace he found in her presence. Though he knew it embarrassed her to talk of such things, he knew that she was his salvation in a very real sense. Around her, he could let his thoughts and words lie unguarded, his natural caution relaxed. She made him feel safe, and that was a luxury beyond measure in his line of work.

Eventually, he rose, carefully moving her arm away lest he wake her. Let her sleep for just a few minutes more. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled on his clothes; mentally preparing himself for the trials he knew lay ahead. His garb was simple and unassuming, a white cotton shirt and dark trousers that served to cover up the jagged black markings that covered his own skin. The only detail of any note was the iron Aquila pendant that hung around his neck on a silver chain. Nico took a long breath, cast one last regretful look back at Elise, and then stepped through the door and into the corridor beyond.

Almost immediately, he was bombarded by the voices, a thundering river of them that poured into his mind and threatened to drown him. He screwed his eyes tight shut and closed one fist around the Aquila pendant, hissing the litanies he had been taught as a child. The walls came up in his mind, and within a few moments he was again able to control himself once more, the river of voices slowing to a mere trickle. With a muttered curse, Nico pushed himself away from the wall that he did not remember slumping against and made his way down the corridor. Emperor, but he hated working in Hives.

The rest of the team was already waiting for him in the small communal area of the hab. Jonas Furan, hard-bitten veteran of the Merov Penal Legions, was leaning back in his chair, booted feet resting on the table in front of him. Solomon Roth was seated opposite him, his eyes closed and hands clasped in front of him as he muttered a series of prayers to the God-Emperor, his ornate axe propped up against the wall next to him. Nico could feel his faith like a warm blanket, and behind it, the dark stains of private memories he had no wish to examine further.

Jonas nodded to Nico as he approached. "Slept in a bit, didn't you, psyker?"

Nico smiled slightly. "I had reason." He could feel the texture of the soldier's mind, grating against his thoughts like rough sand, and watched as the dark stain of irritation gave way to a flickering stream of lewd thoughts as Jonas contemplated what some of those reasons might have been. Iron bands of self restraint closed around the images as Jonas remembered that he was sharing the room with a telepath. No one ever quite managed to completely control their thoughts, but Nico was grateful that Jonas was considerate enough to try. The soldier grunted sourly at the look on the psyker's face.

"Still don't get how you can stand to be around her. I mean, you're a mind-freak, and she's... well, she is what she is. Isn't it supposed to hurt you, being near her?"

"She brings me peace." This was not the first time the two of them had had this conversation, and he doubted that it would be the last. Nicodemus moved swiftly on, looking over at the black-clad priest. "Has our guest said anything yet?"

Roth opened his eyes slowly. "He's said plenty. Mostly about how we don't know who we're messing with, along with the occasional promise of retribution. Our bones will be broken, our blood will flow upon the earth, our very souls will be flayed from our bodies... you know, the usual stuff."

Nico couldn't help but chuckle quietly. Roth was a member of the Black Priests of Maccabeus, and like many of his kind often exhibited a rather dark strain of humour. The deadpan way in which he related such dire threats often wavered between humorous and slightly disturbing. "So, he hasn't said anything of any real use to us?"  
>"No. And we are running out of time."<p>

Nico nodded, the humour fading from his manner in an instant. He knew the deadline that Roth was referring to, one that stripped away the time needed for an in-depth interrogation of a suspect. He took the time to pour himself a generous measure of recaf into a battered metal beaker, and then made his way over to the small side-chamber, separated from the main communal area by a door that looked like it might fall from its hinges at any moment.

There was a man inside, naked and tied securely to a chair, slumped forwards in exhaustion. His breathing was heavy and rasping, as though each one was a monumental effort. Nico noted the livid bruises on the man's torso and the bloody welts on his arms. Jonas had evidently been busy. To Nico's sight, the man's pain and desperation stained the air around him a sickly yellow colour that hurt the eyes to look upon. At the sound of the opening door the man looked up, his bloodshot eyes pleading and terrified in equal measure.

"Please... just let me go... I won't tell the others about you, I swear..." his tone was broken, a far cry from the confident and foul-mouthed man that they had brought here a little over two days ago. Forty eight hours in the care of Jonas had stripped away all that bluster and rage, leaving only this pathetic specimen behind. And yet he had still refused to answer the questions that the team most desperately needed answered. Nico smiled at the man, leaning back against the wall and taking a long sip from his mug, trying not to grimace at the harsh taste.

"It's not what you'll say to the others that concern us. It's what you'll say to us. Or more specifically, what you are not saying to us." He paused for a moment, watching the wounded man for any sign of comprehension. There was none, which was hardly surprising. "Believe it or not, we have actually been rather gentle with you up until this point. But if you are going to keep resisting us, we'll have to move onto less considerate methods."

The prisoner tried to laugh, but it swiftly degenerated into pained sobbing. "What more could you possibly do to me?" He asked, tears mingling with blood as they streamed down his cheeks.

_That is a very foolish question to ask. You will never enjoy the answer_. It took a moment for the captive to realise that the words running through his mind were not his own, and then his face went pale. "Witch..." he hissed, an almost primordial fear colouring his voice.

"Yes." Nico said calmly, using his physical voice. He set the mug aside and took a step forwards. "Now, I could use your fear of me to get you to talk, but I already know that won't work. You see, we already know about the Tontine you signed."

Now there, there was the reaction he was after. The prisoner jerked backwards, as though attempting to get away from the one who had uttered those words. His lips clamped shut, but his eyes were screaming in fear. That told Nico everything he needed to know in order to confirm his suspicions. He pressed on remorselessly, exploiting the gap his words had broken open in the captive's defences.

"Yes, the Tontine. An agreement, written in blood upon human hide, wasn't it? I'm sure you have no idea exactly what sort of creatures it was that you made that bargain with, but you do know who else signed it along with you. And more importantly, you know who it was that arranged and facilitated that bargain in the first place."

He crossed the distance between them with two quick steps. "Now, I expect that you aren't going to tell me who that person was. No doubt one of the clauses of that Tontine was to forbid you from informing others of its details. But it's OK... I hardly need your cooperation for this next part. I wish I could say it won't hurt, but that would be a lie." Nicodemus seized the captive's forehead in a tight grip and stared into his panicked, bulging eyes. "It is time to tell me your secrets, little man."

There were many ways he could have obtained the information he required from his terrified captive. He could have slid under his defences like a stiletto, taking only what he needed. He could have constructed an elaborate mental realm and slowly persuaded the man to lead him to the answer. He could have used any of a thousand and one different methods that would have achieved his goal and left the man's mind intact. Nico chose none of these.

He tore into the man's conscious mind like a wild animal, shredding his thoughts with claws of pure willpower. He shattered the prisoner's personality into a million tiny pieces, burned his memories to cinders and ripped the objective from the boiling sea of his mind.

When it was over, Nico stepped back from the corpse in front of him, breathing hard. He took a moment to compose himself, studying what was left of the man he had been interrogating. Blood ran from the captive's ears, and his eyes had popped, leaking their fluid down his face. There were livid burn marks on his skin where Nico's hand had been in direct contact, and the psyker made a note to get the body incinerated. He had inflicted a very distinctive type of death on the captive, and it would not do to call too much attention to the cell's activities just yet.

His breathing steadied, Nico stepped back into the communal area. Roth stepped past him into the small room, prayer book in hand, ready to say the last rites as he had hundreds of times before. Jonas was rubbing his ears slightly and glaring at him.

"Curse it all, psyker, did he have to scream that loudly? Damn near burst my eardrums."

Nico smiled tightly. "I'm sorry, Jonas. Next time, I'll ask him to be more considerate of your delicate temperament." He ignored the Guardsman's obscene reply, focusing instead on the third figure who had joined them in the room, feeling a sense of relief wash over him as the thoughts of the surrounding building were smothered into silence.

"Did we get what we were after?" Elise asked, her voice calm and professional. She had evidently risen whilst he was with the captive, and had dressed for action in her durable bodyglove and battered old jacket, a legacy of her days in the gangs of Gunmetal City. The twinned pistols hung from her hips in a hand-crafted holster, the other thing that she had retained since entering the service of their master. Nico nodded to her.

"Good. I'll tell the Inquisitor. He will be so pleased."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Every week, the brotherhood met in a different location, making their way there in ones and twos from a dozen different directions, ever fearful of drawing undue attention. Social gatherings of this size were forbidden by the Overseer Primus, lest they distract the teeming millions of the hive from their appointed tasks and hours of worship. If they were found by the wardens, every man in the chamber knew that they would be docked pay – a death sentence when their meagre wages were barely sufficient to support their families as it was.

Of course, gatherings of this _nature_ were forbidden on every world in the Imperium, and carried a much higher sentence than a paltry loss of pay.

They did not wear hoods or disguises, for they had all signed the agreement and laid eyes upon the creatures responsible for maintaining it. The fear that such beings evoked in the hearts of mortals was safeguard enough against betrayal, for none would dare to tempt their wrath. And so they met each week without fear of discovery or reprisal to receive what was owed to them under the terms of the pact.

Except that was no longer the case. In tight groups the brotherhood gathered together and whispered nervously to one another, unsure of what to make of these latest developments. They expected one of their members to be missing, taken by the Assessors based on whatever strange system they used for allocating victims. None of them would mourn the loss of Overseer Krista – indeed, many had been privately hoping that he would be selected next. But to lose Foreman Pius in the same week and in circumstances that none could accurately define was troubling in the extreme.

Several of them, the ones who had been the most reluctant to sign the Tontine, expressed the belief that the Assessors were altering the terms of the arrangement. Their concerns were dismissed by their fellows more out of fear than confidence. They had always believed the Assessors to be bound by the terms of the arrangement, and the thought of losing what little control they had over the matter was a horrifying prospect to those who allowed themselves to dwell upon it.

Others thought that perhaps some common criminals had thought to pick a member of the brotherhood as a target, a view that many found far more reassuring than the possible alternatives. The bargain they had struck did not make them immune to mundane threats, they whispered to each other, and all promised themselves that they would be more careful than their missing brother.

A very few of them mentioned the possibility that the authorities had taken their comrade, and that soon they would force the truth of the compact from his lips. These were the ones who glanced at the shadows around them with the greatest suspicion, and huddled closest to the few lights they had. If any of them felt any sense of vindication in what happened next, they didn't have the time to express it.

There was no warning. No blaring demands for surrender or blinding lights to fix them in place, no yelled identifications of authority or recited laws. The Inquisition generally saw no need to let the heretic and blasphemer know of their fate in advance. Instead, the first clue the brotherhood had that their meeting had been discovered was when a small, spherical device spun out of the darkness to land in the middle of their group with a menacing clatter. The grenade detonated a second later, shredding half a dozen men into bloody strips of meat and sending the others into riotous confusion. The cell rushed out of the darkness and fell on the stunned heretics without mercy or hesitation.

Jonas led the advance, cutting down the heretics with quick blurts of fire from the silenced autorifle in his hands. He killed with a feral grin on his face, revelling in the destruction he was reaping. Solomon Roth advanced by his side, maintaining a grim silence punctuated only by the distinctive banging retort of his bolt pistol. One of the corrupted workers attempted to rush him, a heavy industrial wrench held in a two handed grip. Roth sidestepped around the clumsy swing and hacked the man's head from his shoulders in a shower of gore, his gleaming axe parting flesh and bone with the faintest touch.

A handful of the cultists attempted to escape the slaughter, instinctively heading directly away from the pair of implacable killers in their haste. Elise met them before they had gone ten paces, a pair of Hecuter-9 pistols in her gloved hands. Three quick bursts of fire and a handful of bullet-riddled corpses collapsed at her feet. The gunslinger smirked and went looking for more fools to kill. Nico followed her in, the shotgun in his hands barking loudly as he added to the slaughter.

The massacre lasted a little over thirty seconds; half a minute of gunfire, blood and screams. When it was over, the four operatives stood in a loose group near the centre of the chamber, surrounded by the corpses of close to fifty men. Their foes had been caught completely by surprise and almost entirely unarmed. They had never stood a chance.

Jonas breathed in deeply, savouring the strong smell of gunpowder and blood that filled the chamber. Nico was glad that Elise was nearby, for he had no wish to experience the sensations running through the mind of the soldier in front of him. The Inquisition had a use for many kinds of operative, and it was often felt that the best candidates came from those who enjoyed their work. Sometimes, the only difference between men like Jonas and the creatures they hunted was an official sanction.

It was impossible to tell what Roth was thinking. The Black Priest merely stood quietly off to one side, his head bowed in contemplation as he methodically cleaned the gore from his axe blade. His face might have been set in stone for all the emotion he showed.

Elise prowled back and forth across the chamber, checking each of the bodies in turn. Here and there among the piles of twisted bodies she would find one that still drew breath. Those that looked like they might still survive were greeted with a cold smile and a single round through the skull. Those whose wounds merely prolonged their demise were left to bleed out on the cold floor. Their orders had been most specific. This operation was not about defeating a threat to the stability of the subsector. It was about setting an example to other potential heretics among the teeming millions of the Hive's population.

Nico nodded to himself in satisfaction as he watched his lover go about her work. He could not be entirely sure if they had eliminated every last member of the group in this ambush, but it wouldn't really matter. Any who survived would abandon their deviant ways and become loyal, faithful citizens once more, quelled into obedience by raw terror and dread. That, or they would be caught out by the wave of suspicion and paranoia that was bound to flow through the region once word of the massacre got out, likely to be burnt at the stake as heretics.

That left only one more task to do before the cell could call their work here complete and return to their master; the elimination of the sorcerer who had brokered the dark pact in the first place. Nico knew without being told that such a man would pose a far greater threat than anything this motley crew could have presented.

The thought brought a hungry smile to his features.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_We are the monsters who protect you from the other monsters._  
>- Motto of the Imperial Inquisition (unofficial)<p>

They found the first corpse impaled on a rusted metal bar near the edge of the Tangles. Evidently dead for some time, the corpse's flesh had already entered an advanced state of decomposition, the process no doubt accelerated by the humid conditions. Its skin had necrotised and begun to fall off, and the flesh underneath was covered with clumps of an odd blue mould. The stench was incredible, and every member of the cell found some way to cover their nose before venturing deeper into the twisted maze of pipes.

The Tangles, as the region was known to the locals, was an area of the underhive where pipes from dozens of different manufactories all met on their way down to the sump pits at the very base of the hive. Several dozen miles of pipes wove through and around each other, interconnecting in places until they formed a veritable jungle of metalwork. The occasional leak made the atmosphere within both humid and disgustingly rank, until only the lowest of scum would contemplate even going near them. It was also the lair of the sorcerer they were hunting.

Nico paused for a moment, adjusting the thick cloth that covered his mouth and nose. It didn't help much – he could still smell the assortment of rank stenches that filled the air around him, and they almost made him physically ill. He'd smelt much worse before – growing up in the depths of Volg Hive, popularly believed to be the least appealing location in the sector, he had been used to the vile stench of the bogs and the pale things that lived within them. But he had not set foot in those lightless depths for many years now, and the acclimatisation had faded. Stifling the urge to curse, he consoled himself with thoughts of what exactly it was he was going to do to this sorcerer once they located him.

On the other side of the narrow pathway, Elise stopped and turned to look at him. Her face was hidden behind the emotionless visage of a gas mask, but he got the feeling that she was smiling at him. Nico rolled his eyes and moved on, clenching the shotgun to his chest as he advanced. He was clad in the plain and functional grab of a factory worker, disdaining any form of bulky armoured suit in favour of a light vest of mesh armour concealed under his top. His tattooed arms on display, the psyker knew that he looked like a common thug, but he didn't much care. If his enemies underestimated him based on his commonplace appearance, then they only handed him the advantage.

Up ahead, Jonas crouched down behind a low-lying pipe and peered over the top at something beyond, before raising a clenched fist in the air. Of the group, the soldier was the only one who showed no adverse reaction to the horrible smell on the air. An encounter with poison gas some years ago, in one of the brutally sadistic 'training exercises' run by the brother-generals of the Merov Penal Legions, had robbed Jonas of any sense of smell or taste. He was wearing the armour of his old Legion now, and the carbine that rested on the ground next to him bore the tell-tale marks of the customisation practices such men frequently applied to their gear.

Nico slid forwards, keeping his head low until he was crouched alongside Jonas. Elise slide in next to him, while Roth hunkered down on the far side of the Legionnaire. Looking over the top of the pipe, it was immediately apparent what had prompted the stop and sudden stealth. They had found the sorcerer's lair.

It was a squalid thing, little more than a dozen or so animal hides stapled together and draped across a number of the pipes to form a crude, if spacious, tent. A series of small braziers guttered within, and the strange colour of their smoke told of some unusual fuels. Blankets and mats were arrayed on the ground underneath the covering to form a makeshift floor, until the entire ensemble resembled some kind of nomadic encampment.

The only things that spoiled the image were the bodies. Eight of them, impaled through the chest on long, corroded metal pikes that stood outside the tent. It was hard to be certain from this angle, but Nico was fairly sure that he could see some sort of pattern traced on the ground between the bodies, most likely in the blood of the dead men.

"So, what do we think?" Jonas said in a harsh whisper. His eyes were fixed onto the shadowy interior of the tent, trying to locate some trace of the warlock responsible for the ghastly scene outside. Nicodemus took a risk and raised his head slightly higher in order to get a good look over the scene before ducking back down. He shook his head.

"Amateur. Probably just some backstreet witch who doesn't fully comprehend what it is that he's summoning up. Really, it's a miracle he hasn't already called something beyond his control and gotten himself eaten."

Roth was studying the whole area intently, his eyes serious. "No need to deviate from standard procedure then. Kill the heretic, secure any blasphemous items, and burn the rest to the ground." He seemed pleased at the thought, if in a somewhat morbid fashion.

"Then let's not waste time." Jonas growled. "On my mark... go!"

They left the cover in a rush and ran silently towards the tent, instinct compelling them to choose a route around the circle of corpses, even though they lay directly between the cell and their objective. They advanced without a sound, not wishing to alert their prey through anything as trivial as a war cry. Such things were for noble warriors like the Guard or Astartes, those who fought against the evils without in honourable combat. The evils within deserved no such respect, and the Inquisition would afford them none.

It wasn't until the cell passed the first of the impaled corpses that things went wrong. The heads of the dead men, which had previously been dangling limply against their chest, snapped up and craned to face the acolytes. Purple flames boiled in their eyes, and with the tearing of skin their mouths opened wide, revealing empty gums bleeding and raw. Their unholy shrieking filled the world, and Nico staggered under the sheer force of it, his own cry of agony unheard over the horrible sound as he fell to the floor.

From up ahead, a figure emerged from the darkness of the pavilion. Scarlet eyes gleamed with infernal amusement and waxy skin pulled taut over prominent cheekbones as the sorcerer laughed. In one withered hand he held a staff of sinew and bone that seemed to echo the bubbling laugh of its master. His other arm terminated in a waving bundle of leech-like tendrils, a sickly pale yellow in colour, and in it he cradled a mammoth tome close to his chest. Through the haze of pain, Nico saw him and cursed his own presumptions. This was no petty warp dabbler, no amateur working beyond his abilities. This was a true witch, a warlock with infernal powers beyond the dreams of sane men.

The horrible screaming sound faded, and for one brief moment Nico thought his eardrums had burst under the assault. Then he looked up from the ground and felt his breath catch in his throat. Elise stood over him, her body instinctively interposed between her lover and the sorcerer. The unnatural howling of the daemon-corpses could not affect her, and while he remained nearby Nico too was spared the agony of their cries. With a gasp of effort, he forced himself to rise, limbs shaking as he hauled himself upright.

There were a pair of harsh cracking sounds, and this time in was the sorcerer that took a step back, the cruel laughter suddenly cut off. His eyes, still burning with madness, lowered as he looked down at the two smoking holes in his torso, directly over the heart. Elise smirked triumphantly, an expression that swiftly faded when the warlock refused to fall. Instead he raised his head again, taking a long look at the girl that stood defiantly in front of him. A slow grin spread across his features as long streamers of energy seemed to leap between the screaming corpses and their master, healing the wounds with incredible speed.

The first hints of real fear began to claw at Nico's mind, and he looked desperately around for his comrades. Jonas lay just a few feet to the right of them, thrashing like a grounded fish. His weapon lay abandoned on the floor as he clamped hands over his ears in a desperate attempt to block out the sound tearing at his mind. Roth was beside him, forced into a crouch by the assault. His face was twisted in pain and rage, but despite it he was still rising to his feet, his axe held in a death grip. Nico was sure that the priest was beyond the range of Elise's protective aura, yet somehow he managed to conquer the overwhelming pain and move.

The sorcerer noticed it as well, and an almost comical expression of disbelief crept its way onto his face, replaced a moment later with a feral snarl. The bone-staff swept through the air, and a solid cone of brilliant purple fire erupted from the tip, racing forwards to engulf the defiant priest. In the instant before it hit, Roth brought his axe around in an instinctive warding gesture. The gleaming metal seemed to blaze with a brilliant light, almost as bright as the flames. Nico could only stare in complete astonishment as the fire broke and flowed around the Black Priest, like a thundering river split by a stone. Roth stood in the heart of the inferno, his robes billowing in the currents of heated air that raged around him, holding his axe before him like some sort of talisman that burned with a pure white light.

Jonas had no such protection. The roaring fire washed over him like a wave, charring flesh from bones in an instant. The soldier didn't even have time to scream before he was immolated, his mundane armour no protection from the unholy flames. The sight jolted Nico from his paralysis, and he raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger with desperate haste. He did not bother to target the sorcerer; instead his shot smashed into the screaming face of the nearest corpse-totem. Its dead flesh ruptured under the impact, and the glow faded from the vacant sockets in its skull.

The effect was instantaneous. The destruction of the corpse puppet broke the sacred ring of eight, and in an instant the unnatural vigour left the remaining corpses, allowing them to slump back down brokenly. The screaming cut off as well, and Nico almost cried in relief as the horrible sound faded away. On the far side of the clearing, the sorcerer staggered backwards, almost dropping his staff in shock as the sounds cut off, and with them the invigorating streams of energy that he's been leaching from the ritual circle. The summoned flame flickered and faded, revealing Solomon Roth standing there, smoke rising from the very fringes of his robes. The priest looked up, a fearsome rage burning in his slate-grey eyes.

"And by His hand shall they be cast down, their bodies broken and their works undone." Roth intoned coldly, stepping forwards. "His wrath shall consume them, and they will burn in eternal fire." He raised his axe, holding it in a two-handed grip in front of him. Nico and Elise fell into step on either side, cruel smiles on their faces. "His hand guides me. His will empowers me. His word is on my lips and His sword in my hand. _What do you have_?"

The sorcerer licked his lips and smiled. Gracefully, he lowered himself into a perfect courtly bow, the action almost entirely at odds with his appearance. A cold breeze filled the air, and _things_ stepped out of the shadows.

They were tall, far taller than a man, and spindly. Their bodies were hidden by grey robes, with hoods pulled up to reveal only a trio of burning eyes. In shrouded arms they held long poles capped with thick sheathes of parchment, as though they were twisted mockeries of government scribes. The Assessors made not a sound as they glided forwards, and the air grew chill before their advance.

Nico took a deep breath, and stepped away from his two companions. Almost immediately, the torrent of thoughts poured into his head. The sorcerer's mind was aflame with insane glee, like a child that has discovered a new game to play. The Assessors were icy tornados, self-contained pockets of cold malice and lethal intent. And Roth's mind radiated a burning sense of hatred, like a branding iron fresh from the fire. That was exactly what Nico needed.

Telepathy was a complex discipline, and no two of its practitioners ever wielded it in quite the same way. Some could lift thoughts from the minds of others, reading them like a book without them ever knowing of it, but Nico had never possessed the subtlety necessary to be so precise. If he wanted anything more than vague impressions and sensations from the minds of others, he had to rip it from them, which tended to have serious consequences for the victim. And whilst he was capable of overwhelming the minds of his foes and turn their own bodies against them, the delicate techniques of persuasion through thought induction were beyond him.

There was, however, one area in which he did excel – enhancement. He could magnify the thoughts and feelings of others; interest into obsession, animosity into hate, nervousness into outright terror. And he could move those feelings, shifting them from person to person, place to place. When faced with the daemonic, creatures that might as well be raw concepts personified, such a technique could form a very effective weapon.

He took Roth's rage and hatred, gathering into a tight bundle in his mind and stoking it until it was a raging inferno. The Assessors paused in their advance as they detected the shifting in the aether, but before they could act against him, Nico released the energy with a hoarse yell. In his witch-sight, the shimmering ball of scarlet met the icy cold bundles of darkness with a crackling roar, the each unravelling the other like a ball of string. In the physical realm, the effect was considerably more striking, the Assessors spontaneously combusting, wreathed in brilliant flames that consumed their flowing robes.

They made no sound as they burned, nor even as Roth stepped forwards and cut them down with three quick strokes of his blessed weapon. The priest looked up, locking eyes with the sorcerer. The warlock took half a step backwards, his mouth dropping open in shock.

Elise shot him in the face.


End file.
